


it's better, it's worse- there's no winning in hell

by whumperooni



Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Aggressive Ren, Cages, Collars, Humiliation, Leashes, MC forced to use a litter box, MC is breaking down a little, Multi, Pet!MC, Urination, female!MC, made to crawl, no non-con described but brief mentions of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:34:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23801656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whumperooni/pseuds/whumperooni
Summary: You’re soangryover this- sohorrifiedandfuriousandhumiliated. You want to claw Strade’s eyes out, tear out his throat with your fucking teeth....he’d kill you before you so much as twitched a finger his way.And this is better than the drill or the hammer or his knife sawing through you, right?...right?
Relationships: Protagonist/Strade (Boyfriend to Death), Ren/Strade (Boyfriend to Death)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 37





	it's better, it's worse- there's no winning in hell

**Author's Note:**

> just something that i scribbled out real quick after scrolling through gato's strade tag on tumblr
> 
> the idea of ren being jealous pushes my buttons in a good way and i think it should be written about more

It’s been three days since Strade snapped the collar around your neck.   
  
Well...you _think_ it’s been three days- you don’t really have anything to go by, track the time. He still has you in the basement and there aren’t any clocks, no windows to watch the sun passing.   
  
There’s nothing but the dim light of a bulb that Strade left on for you, the low drone of the tv.   
  
It’s switched from a lion documentary to a shark one. You can’t really hear it, but the subtitles are on and it works as a distraction from how bad you’re hurting...kind of.   
  
You squirm in the cage that Strade has locked you in, squeeze your thighs shut as you try, desperately, to keep from pissing all over yourself.   
  
He cleaned you off with a hose after he put the collar on, but he hasn’t done anything like that since- has only put you in the cage and come down to feed you and look you over with an appraising eye.   
  
It feels like he’s waiting for something. You don’t know what- can’t even begin to imagine what it could be.   
  
You want the something to happen, though, and you want to be out of this cage.   
  
He said he was going to keep you...did that just mean sticking you in the cage like a dog? He lets the other one- Ren? Is that his name?- wander free.   
  
What do you have to do to get that freedom? What do you have to do to get out of this cramped, rusted cage? What do you have to do to get to run free?   
  
Though...it’s not really _free_ , is it?   
  
You sniffle and pull your legs to your chest, whimper when your body protests.   
  
You would do anything to just be able to _stretch_.   
  
And use a toilet. And wear clothes. And brush your teeth. And stuff your face. And get the _fuck_ out of here.   
  
A noise startles you from your yearning for basic human hygiene and you flinch when heavy footsteps make their way down the stairs, curl up tight when they make their way toward you.   
  
What does he _want?_   
  
A whimper escapes you before you can think to swallow it and, all too soon, well worn- heavy and _painful_ \- boots stop in front of your cage.   
  
There’s a smile on Strade’s face when he crouches down to look at you and you can’t help but to panic a little at it, dig your nails into your arms in an effort to keep from crying.   
  
A smile is _never_ good. _Never_.   
  
“Hello, hasi. How are ya?”   
  
The question brings more panic and you just _barely_ manage to control your flinch, can’t keep from trembling.   
  
How- how are you supposed to answer that? Will he hit you if you snap out the obvious answer? Will he just grin and reach for his knife even if you lie?   
  
...it could go either way, honestly.   
  
Lying could amuse him. Annoy him. The truth could make him more fond, could make him want to snap your neck.    
  
You don’t know how to read him.   
  
You don’t think you ever will.   
  
“F-Fine,” you stammer out, unable to keep your voice from shaking.   
  
His smile grows at your tremoring and you hate him, hate that there are tears pricking your eyes.   
  
You’re so _weak_.   
  
“Really? You’re looking a little tense to me,” Strade says, voice low, friendly in a way that makes you want to puke. “I was thinkin’ of letting you out of the cage, but if you’re really fine-”   
  
“No, please! Please!”   
  
Mortification sets in as soon as you blurt it out and you hate hate **_hate_** yourself for begging, can only sustain it for one moment as you whimper with the urge to beg even more.   
  
Strade’s eyes go half-shut and there’s terror in you when his smile turns into a smirk, when his fingers curl through the bars of your cage.   
  
“Thought so,” he teases, voice way too delighted by your begging and the desperation that must be on your face. “How about you come upstairs and watch a movie with us?”   
  
It feels like a trap, but you find yourself nodding before the suggestion fully leaves his mouth.   
  
You just want to _stand_ again.   
  
“Pl-please?” you whisper- _beg_. “Please? I-I wanna watch a movie with you, Strade.”   
  
There’s a chuckle and you flinch as he moves back, almost start crying with the fear that he’s going to deny you.   
  
But then his hand finds the padlock. Then he opens the door to the cage.   
  
It feels too merciful to be anything but a trick.   
  
He’s already hurt you so much, though- what’s one more torture against the possibility of getting out of this cramped little hell?   
  
Trembling, you crawl out of the cage with limbs that feel much too weak, too heavy and painful. Strade backs away to give you enough space to leave fully and you look up at him with terrified eyes, swallow hard as you stare up at him from your knees.   
  
He looks expectant, as if he’s waiting for you to do or say something.   
  
You swallow your panic the best you can and say the first thing that comes to your mind.   
  
“Thank- thank you, s-sir.”   
  
_That_ gets his eyes lighting up and you flinch as his hand reaches out to pat your hair, as his grin grows.   
  
“How polite you are, liebling,” Strade says, laughing. You shake and he huffs, steps toward the stairs. “Come on.”   
  
It takes a terrifying amount of effort to stand.   
  
Your limbs tingle and protest with each movement and you’re partly scared that you might lose the movement of them if you’re forced back into the cage for a longer amount of time, horrified at the thought of not being able to lift a finger to defend yourself.   
  
Though...the collar doesn’t really let you do that either.   
  
Shaking, you stumble after Strade and up the stairs. He patiently keeps the heavy door open for you and you squint once you’re free from the basement, whip your head around in rising panic.   
  
What if he brought you up here to kill you? What if he’s going to slit your throat? What if he’s just going to rape you again? What if he’s just going to break your leg or cut off your fingers or snap your neck or stab another hole in you to fuck? What if-   
  
A shove has you falling on your knees and you cry out in surprise, look up to Strade in fear.   
  
He’s going to hurt you. He’s going to hurt you and he’s going to _kill_ you.   
  
Strade bends down and you shrink back as he pulls a leash from his pocket, whimper as he attaches it to your collar and moves to stand once more.   
  
He’s- he’s treating you like a dog. Like- like a _pet_.   
  
Did he do this to Ren too?   
  
Strade watches you as you tremble and you sniffle under his gaze, bow your head in humiliation.   
  
How did your life end up like this?   
  
“It’s been a while, hasi,” Strade says, voice disgustingly cheerful. “Do you need to use the bathroom?”   
  
All at once you’re aware of your strained bladder, the ache down low from trying to keep from pissing all over yourself.   
  
You nod, eyes low and tears starting to drip down your face.   
  
“Y-yes,” you whisper, voice clogged with all your shame and horror. “Pl-please?”   
  
There’s a tug of the leash and you jerk forward as Strade leads you down a hall. Tears fall to wet the carpet and you can’t help a quiet sob, can’t help the wobble in your crawl as you follow after him like some obedient _mutt_.   
  
He actually leads you to a bathroom. You nearly weep in relief as you see the toilet, almost rise to stand and try to rush over to it.   
  
The nudging of his boot to your pussy keeps you from doing anything, though, and you freeze in agony as he runs his fingers through your hair, jerks your head to catch sight of a litter box.   
  
No. Oh _no_.   
  
You open your mouth to protest? To beg? To weep?   
  
Before you can do any of those things, Strade kicks your ass and makes you lurch toward the litter box, makes you almost pee all over the bathroom floor as your bladder throbs.   
  
You cry, knowing what he wants you to do, and you hate yourself for being so weak as to crawl over to the litter box.   
  
You will never recover from this low.   
  
And he will keep dragging you down to new, worse degradations.   
  
He watches you as you squat over the box and you weep openly over it, hide your face in your hands as your body seizes in refusal to commit such a pathetic act.   
  
It only makes you hurt more, the resistance, and you want to _scream_. You want to _die_.   
  
“Come on, now. We don’t have all day.”   
  
The urging comes with a tug to the leash and you sob from it, sob as your bowels slowly unclench and there’s a horrible _drip_ that leaves you- a disgusting _hiss_ as you begin to piss into the litter like some _stupid_ pet.   
  
You’re so _angry_ over this- so _horrified_ and _furious_ and _humiliated_. You want to claw Strade’s eyes out, tear out his throat with your fucking teeth.   
  
...he’d kill you before you so much as twitched a finger his way.   
  
And this is better than the drill or the hammer or his knife sawing through you, right?   
  
...right?   
  
God, you’re so fucking _pathetic_.   
  
Eventually you’re fully relieved and your thighs are wet with piss despite your best efforts. You want to ask Strade if you can wipe them, but you think that he’ll just laugh at you so you keep quiet and wonder how the fuck you can get out of this hell.   
  
“Done, schatzi?”   
  
You don’t answer- you can’t answer.   
  
Not until Strade tugs hard on your leash, at least. Not until you cower at the thought of his irritation.   
  
The most you can manage is a nod and he tugs again- still rough with it.   
  
You fall back to your hands and knees again and cry as you crawl, swallow back a breakdown as you feel your damp thighs brush against each other.   
  
You’re not being stabbed, you tell yourself. You’re not being stabbed and you’re not being raped and you’re not being choked. This is something you can handle- get the _fuck_ over it and stop acting so pathetic.   
  
It’s easy to tell yourself that, harder to actually pull yourself together.   
  
Strade eventually drags you to a surprisingly nice living room and you blink as you hesitantly look around, shrink back when you spot Ren on the couch staring holes through you.   
  
Your collars are the same, you think, maybe. You’re both in the same situation, right? You’re both under the threat of electric shock and cruel hands and biting knives.   
  
So- so why is he staring at you like he wants to rip your face off?   
  
You whimper and then jerk when Strade’s hand falls heavy on your head, look up at him nervously and try not to freak out.   
  
Does- does Ren hate you? Will he hurt you like Strade does? What are they going to do to you? What’s going to happen?   
  
In your panic, you almost miss Strade’s smile. You don’t miss the way he nudges you toward the couch, though, and you slink over to it on shaking hands and knees despite all your instincts screaming at you to run away, run downstairs and hide in your cage.   
  
“Ren, go make us some popcorn.”   
  
The request- order- makes you even more nervous for some reason and you glance up at the person who should be your sympathetic partner, curl into yourself when you catch the way his ears are flicked back and how his tail thumps against the couch.   
  
He leaves without a word, though, and it makes you panic a little more, makes you look up at Strade in search of some dumb fucking hope that he’ll keep Ren from slashing your throat with his claws.   
  
There’s nothing on his face but amusement, of course, and you hate yourself for looking up at him, hate yourself for being so _stupid_.   
  
Another pat to your head and Strade sits on the couch, spreads his legs wide. The leash is still in his hand and you really don’t know what you’re supposed to do. Does he want you to get up on the couch with him? Does he want you to stay on the floor? Should you put your head in his lap? Should you curl up by his feet?   
  
What would Strade want from his new _pet?_   
  
Bile and anger fill your throat as your mind races and you have to drop your head to hide your gritted teeth, the disgust on your face.   
  
Would a knife to the ribs be better than this? Would being tied to the pole be better than this?   
  
The logical answer is no, but the last remnants of your tattered pride say that yes- yes it _would_ be better.   
  
It would be better if he killed you.   
  
...you’re still so scared of dying, though.   
  
With a sniffle, you raise your head to look up at Strade. He’s staring down at you- the ever expectant look on his face- and you don’t know what to do, just want to collapse and weep and fall into your distress.   
  
That’ll make it worse, though.   
  
Or. Maybe not. Maybe it’ll amuse Strade.   
  
Who the fuck knows?   
  
You touch the couch cushion in front of you, tired and not knowing if he’ll allow you up or not. Strade doesn’t say anything when you place a hand on the couch, doesn’t say anything when your other hand joins.   
  
Maybe...maybe he’ll let you up. Maybe it won’t be as horrible as your mind makes it out to be.   
  
(Yeah fucking right.)   
  
You blink up at him and hesitate as he smiles at you, slowly- cautiously- try to raise yourself up onto the couch.   
  
You make it maybe a few centimeters before your hands are pushed away, before Ren climbs onto it and sprawls obnoxiously- leaving no room for you to crawl up and join them.   
  
Ren puts the popcorn bowl in Strade’s lap and rests his head on his thigh, looks at you with eyes that could drill holes through your skull.   
  
A protest almost leaves you on instinct, but you manage to keep it reigned in and instead look up at Strade, try to see what he’ll do.   
  
Nothing. He’s going to do nothing.   
  
Strade’s gaze is on the tv and his hand is in Ren’s hair- fingers tugging at ginger locks and petting through lazily. There’s satisfaction on Ren’s face when you look, a relaxation to his body that wasn’t there before. When you meet his gaze, you swear there’s something like a smirk that crosses his face.   
  
Why? _Why?_ He had been so nice to you before.   
  
“You’re in the way,” Ren grumbles, a hand reaching to cling to Strade’s thigh.   
  
You want to smack him. You want to reach forward and smack his bratty face and pull on his stupid ears and punch his dumb little nose.   
  
It’s not _fair_ \- why do you have to deal with a maniac _and_ a Stockholm suffering fox-human _thing?_   
  
You frown and Ren frowns back, lips dipping into a small scowl and eyes narrowing.   
  
You hate him for bullying you. You hate him more for being nice to you before.   
  
It’s not fucking _fair_.   
  
A small growl leaves Ren and your shoulders jump a little, your eyes flick away.   
  
Would Strade let Ren hurt you?   
  
...probably.   
  
Another growl and you begrudgingly crawl out of Ren’s line of sight. Some part of you almost curls up at Strade’s feet, but the angry part of you pushes past that and you end up on the opposite side of Strade’s lap, end up placing your head on his other thigh.   
  
There’s a chuckle from Strade and you flinch when his free hand finds your hair, have to fight not to shrink back when Ren glares your way.   
  
You’re not going to let _both_ of them make you miserable- no way. No _fucking_ way.   
  
Ren can go fuck himself.   
  
Another pet through your hair and you wrap an arm around Strade’s calf, turn your attention to the movie and try- so very hard- to ignore the daggers stared through your skull.   
  
If Ren can have his freedoms, then you can too.   
  
You can get them. You _will_ get them and you won’t be stupid enough to stay in this place, to let yourself be a pet for a killer.   
  
You’ll get your freedom. You’ll win Strade’s trust. You’ll escape. You’ll be _free_.   
  
You’ll be free.   
  
Unseeing, you stare at the tv and desperately dream of escape, curl closer to Strade’s leg as he runs fingers through your filthy hair.   
  
_I’m going to be free_ , you tell yourself as you sit there with a collar around your neck, with a leash looped onto Strade’s wrist, with your body bruised and aching and tired enough to lean against him as he continues to pet your hair. _I’m going to be free. Won’t end up like Ren. Won’t stay here like an idiot. Won’t stay here and be somebody’s pet._   
  
You repeat that to yourself over and over- loop it through your mind even as your eyes grow heavy and fall shut.    
  
You’re going to be free. And- and you’re not going to be another pet for Strade. You’re not going to let Ren make you even more scared and defeated.   
  
You’re- you’re going to be free.   
  
Free.   
  
Free…   
  
A small noise escapes you, but you don’t catch it as you drift to sleep, don’t recognize anything in your exhaustion except for fingers trailing down your cheek, running back up to pet your hair.   
  
It...it feels nice…   
  
It shouldn’t…   
  
Feels so nice though…   
  
Another small noise and you sink into your exhaustion, curl up closer to your captor and sigh softly as you fall to sleep under his touch, his grin.   
  
Freedom is on your mind as you lose consciousness, but it loses out to the warmth of the living room compared to the chill of your cramped cage, how _good_ non-violent touches feel compared to bruising grips.   
  
It isn’t so bad, maybe…   
  
(you’re never going to break free)


End file.
